


Snapping

by entanglednow



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Aziraphale Is Trying (Good Omens), Fluff and Angst, Gifts, M/M, Misunderstandings, Snake Crowley (Good Omens), Snake Problems, silliness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-02
Updated: 2020-06-02
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:28:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24505414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/entanglednow/pseuds/entanglednow
Summary: In which Crowley is trying to sleep, and the world is being more distracting than usual.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 175
Kudos: 726
Collections: Snakey Bits!Crowley





	Snapping

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was inspired by a very adorable piece of art by JoulesBurn, which has now been expanded into a companion piece of art, and is linked at the end of the story!

The weather has improved to the point that the bookshop is actually comfortably warm, enough that Crowley has taken to dozing in a space between two bookshelves, while Aziraphale potters around desperately trying to avoid the always impending threat of customers, and if they somehow get in, to avoid selling them anything. 

Crowley's human form would have difficulty fitting into the inviting nook he's claimed, but the space is perfect for a loose collection of coils. His body occasionally spirals in more tightly, or loosely opens out, depending on temperature, comfort, or the angle of the sunlight across his body. He feels deliciously warmed and sleepy, the world syrupy slow around his faster than human senses.

Though the one drawback of choosing snake form to sleep, is how long it takes to zone his eyes out, to let them unfocus and settle. Until sight becomes simply a swirl of motion and wavering heat, that can be ignored.

Crowley's close to full sleep when he registers a fly buzzing irritably around his head. Its strange, looping motion an annoying combination of drunken and frenzied, before it has the absolute temerity to settle on the arch of his eye ridge, crawling around the scales there like it owns the place. Crowley wastes a miracle to send the thing out into traffic, let it test its reflexes out there. 

His second attempt at sleep lasts just over an hour, before he's distracted by the flutter and flicker of paper, stirred into motion by the breeze drifting in under the bookshop door. The constant movement keeps catching his eye, tugging him out of sleep to focus on the utter mundanity of it, as if it might be some tasty treat to be gobbled up.

He naps a bit longer, only for the sun to move around, the light coming in the window at a new angle, which slaps him straight across his narrow pupils. He shuffles his coils around, tucks his head half under one of them. Though he doesn't like to be contained and out of sight, he likes his head free, so he can taste when Aziraphale wanders across the shop floor. 

Crowley likes to be able to slide his tongue out, to draw the angel inside, to mark the hours of the day by the scents he gives off. Early morning is cocoa and cologne, mixed with the oil he uses on his pocket watch, and whatever delicacy Crowley had bought him that morning. Mid-morning to lunchtime, the earlier smells have faded, making room for paper, and binding glue, ink and the faint scents of other people as Aziraphale sorts his mail. Then there will be lunch, which Crowley will always join him for, when he'll smell warm and content, the angel-tang of him a little stronger when he laughs and indulges and smiles. The day will finally fade into afternoon, when Aziraphale will start to smell like tea and books and - depending on how many times Crowley has circled and leaned and nudged into his space - the angel may even smell just a little bit like him.

Which is an indulgence, a secret he keeps to himself, doesn't dare give away how much he likes it.

Crowley doesn't want to miss any of those scents, even in sleep. So he pulls his head back out, suffers the pestering insects, and the sunlight, and the wafts of pages flickering and crinkling in the slight breeze. And the way the bookshelves go on forever, a ladder of straight lines, and spines that run together, in varying dull shades of brown and dark blue and red. 

It takes a few more tries before he manages to tune everything out - and then just as suddenly he's pulled out of sleep again - by Aziraphale moving in front of him. He supposes that the angel has come for a book, something tucked into a shelf close to Crowley's claimed space. He debates whether to be obstinate, to remain in the way long enough that Aziraphale will fuss, and call him a fiend, insist that he move, lest he crumple something between his coils. Or maybe Crowley can pull him into conversation, let the angel's smooth voice distract him away from everything else.

But instead of focusing on the shelves, Aziraphale kneels down beside him, gives a considering hum at the way he's squirmed himself into the hidden nook, before finally lifting a hand. 

The idea that Aziraphale wants to touch him like this, to stroke his smooth scales with his warm hand, feels unexpectedly bold of him. Aziraphale rarely reaches out first, and the fact that he's doing it now - Crowley finds himself instinctively half-uncoiling for it, stretching upwards, more than ready for a touch from the angel, even like this, always, _always_.

"Do you mind, my dear?" Aziraphale asks quietly, fingers hovering, and Crowley nudges his head forward, because of course he doesn't. Oh, he may say he does, he may make horribly put-upon noises, and grumble, and protest, but he doesn't mean any of it. _He doesn't mean any of it._ Aziraphale has to know that.

Aziraphale touches his snout, slowly, carefully. He tests its texture, and the curved shape of his mouth and neck. He uses two fingers to tip Crowley's head a little, to perform a gentle exploration of his eye ridges, until he's running his thumb between Crowley's eyes, a curious, tickling gesture that leaves his tail curling in pleasure. Before Aziraphale makes a curious noise and leans back, patting his thighs like he's going to push himself to his feet again.

What?

_"What's all this about?"_ Crowley manages, grateful that the hiss of his snake voice doesn't pick up anything too incriminating in the way of tones and inflections. 

"Oh, just a thought." Aziraphale waves a hand. "Not to worry, go back to sleep."

Go back to -

The angel rises, sensible shoes taking him back towards the desk, where he returns to whatever it was he was doing, without a backwards glance.

_Go back to sleep?!_

Crowley is mildly infuriated. He's not a _pet_ , he's not a wild animal to be curiously stroked and investigated on a whim. He's the Serpent of bloody Eden. Aziraphale can't just ask to touch him and then walk away like it's nothing. He can't stroke his scales with his warm, strong fingers, leaving lingering traces of his scent all over him, and then just make noises that seem to say, 'oh, Crowley, you're so interesting,' and go back to his desk. The audacity! The offence! 

He'd thought Aziraphale saw him exactly the same way in his snake form as in his human form - but maybe that's not true?

He curls himself tightly into his own body, intent on sulking, intent on being hurt and offended for the rest of the afternoon. He watches Aziraphale retrieve a box from a drawer, something small and fancy, a jewellery box? No, a sewing box, or something like it. Something for clothing repairs. Crowley watches him for a while, as he draws out thread, and pieces of elastic, and ribbons.

After a long, depressed stretch of time, his eyes unfocus again, and he's sleeping -

"Crowley?"

Crowley pulls his snout out of his coils, where he'd obviously tucked it when the world became too annoying, to find the angel in front of him once again. He's fidgeting with some sort of padded material, looking strangely nervous. And so he should, Crowley is well within his rights to still be cross with him. He's still trying to think of something particularly cutting to say when Aziraphale speaks.

"I made you something," he says quietly, the words strangely uncertain, as if he wasn't sure whether he'd done something wrong.

Made him something?

"I don't know if you have any interest, perhaps you'll just find it terribly inconvenient." Aziraphale unfolds the padded, bunched thing until its purpose becomes apparent. It's a sleep mask, in soft, black material, the edges trimmed in red, a delicate stretch of elastic holding both sides - that may or may not have tiny hearts sewn where it attaches. The front has large eyes embroidered onto it, set wide apart, in the perfect position for a snake.

Crowley stares at it, through eyes that weren't designed to shut, and feels the huge, disgruntled thing inside him roll over and show its belly.

"I confess I'm quite unable to tell whether you're asleep or awake," Aziraphale explains, and it sounds a lot like an apology. "But I have noticed how you sometimes seem annoyed by distractions and irritations while you're - well, basking I suppose - and I wanted to - I hope its not terribly impertinent of me. Seems rather silly now I come to explain." There's a wash of colour making its way across his face. "I'm sure it's not the sort of thing you'd put up with -"

Crowley interrupts him by butting his head against the side of Aziraphale hand.

_"Put it on me, angel."_

Aziraphale looks surprised, then smiles, exhales the rest of whatever he was going to say in relief, and leans forward. He carefully settles the mask over Crowley's head. The material is soft, and there are faint depressions inside, so his ever-open eyes don't touch the fabric. The elastic is short but narrow, loosely attached and angled perfectly so he could slip it on and off with a slow, flexing motion of his neck. It's very comfortable, and very dark inside, Crowley spends a moment with no idea what to say, no way to properly convey how the gift makes him feel. The squirming warmth and affection that stretches and aches inside him, until it feels too big for his skin to hold. The sudden realisation that Aziraphale had been watching him, noticing his discomfort, his frustration, and had made him something while he slept. 

He lifts his head, displays himself and his new accessory for Aziraphale.

"How is it?" Crowley asks, as casually as he can manage, tongue sliding out to check the angel's reaction while he waits for words.

"You look rather dashing," Aziraphale says. "As always." Crowley can hear him smiling, knows it's that wide, slightly ridiculous one that looks crookedly real. The one that's always been his favourite.

Crowley's tongue tells him 'amusement, relief, happiness,' and the humming sweetness of something bigger, something he's a little afraid to name.

"How does it fit?" Aziraphale asks, and Crowley feels him lean in close, fingers adjusting the mask a touch. He feels the faint brush of knuckles across his scales. More confident now he has permission. As if Crowley is always Crowley, no matter what shape he is.

"Perfectly," Crowley decides. _Thank you,_ he thinks, desperately. _I'm sorry I doubted you, I should have known better._ "Suppose I better test it."

He makes a big show of settling his coils into a comfortable position, a piled series of loops to rest his head on. Which he promptly does. The lack of visual distraction is soothing. He can taste Aziraphale, still close, still a comforting presence of relief, amusement and fondness, and that warm, something else, vast and familiar on the edge of his senses. 

Crowley sinks into the welcoming darkness, lets the creaking sounds and curling tastes of the bookshop drift him into sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> Art of Crowley napping in his present is now viewable! [Snapping Snake](https://crowleymowley.tumblr.com/post/619909738309844992/an-inspiration-ouroboros-happened-in-the-discord)!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Snapping](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24662539) by [Djapchan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Djapchan/pseuds/Djapchan)




End file.
